Unsinkable
by through-the-eye-of-a-needle
Summary: It was unsinkable, they said, the ship of dreams. No-one realised they were wrong until it was too late.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **Well hello, dear readers. This is my new story, and I hope you enjoy it. There are several named, historical characters in this fanfiction, and several who did not survive the disaster that occurred on the 15th April 1912. I mean no offence by working them into my story and changing aspects of their lives. But, with all that over, welcome aboard the maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic. On behalf of the White Star Line, I hope you have a safe and uneventful journey.

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**One**

_Wednesday, 10__th__ of April, 1912._

"Clove, dear, do not lean out of the windows like that. It is so uncouth."

Clove ignored her pernickety governess, revelling in the feeling of the fresh sea air whipping across her face, teasing strands of dark hair from the complicated up-do that her maid had forced her into that morning in front of the grand silvered mirror. It was so close, so tangible; she had waited almost two years for this moment.

Soon, she would be able to see it.

The train was slowing, now, passing the main station and turning along the curving track in spurts of white steam and whistling, and then, look, there was the sea, waves breaking against the quay in swathes of blue and green and grey.

There it was.

A very unladylike gasp escaped her, and she clapped one hand to her mouth, still holding onto the painted window-frame of the carriage with the other, the ridged velvet digging into her knees through her petticoats. It was _magnificent, _all strong lines and blacks and whites, the four funnels proud against the bright sky, the name painted on the side of the hull.

_ R.M.S. Titanic_, the ship of dreams.

The train drew to a halt and the other ladies began to fuss over their handbags and large feathered hats, calling for errant children and maids, but Clove was still staring out of the window, in raptures over the beautiful ship her own dear father had designed. She had seen the plans of course, when she visited her father in his office in Belfast, and seen the skeleton when they had strolled to the docks to inspect the progress together, but never in all her seventeen years had she imagined it would be this majestic, so large that she had to tilt her head upwards to take in the sheer height of the black hull, like an expanse of night-time sky.

"Clove Johanna Andrews." Her governess' hand pulled her away from the window, sharply. "You will stay with me, this time. No running off, if you please."

"Yes, Miss Trinket." Clove sighed, gathering her handbag, smoothing her silken navy skirt down, shooting the ship another longing glance out of the window. In less than the space of an hour, she would be boarding it.

It was not like Clove had not seen ships before. Her father was a naval architect, and she had always gone with him on maiden voyages, ever since she was a small child. Her father always ruffled her dark hair, and told her that she had evidently inherited his sea legs and love of the ocean, unlike her step-mother who was happy to stay at home and mind little Elba, her baby sister who was happily stumbling around the nursery on her fat, wobbling legs.

"I am so pleased all of the Third Class have already boarded," Miss Trinket sniffed. "I would _hate _to think of what one would catch being near those sorts of people."

Clove turned her head away, back towards the ship as they left the train, ignoring her governess' comment. She would never understand why her stepmother had engaged whining, pouting Miss Trinket to be her governess, when the woman had more airs and graces than sense.

The platform was so crowded, people pressing against people in so many different colours of cloth and adornments of hats, and even once the pair had left the latticed archway of the station the crowd did not abate, squeezing onto the quay in amongst piles of luggage, uniformed porters and grease-stained workmen, shouting and calling and chattering like one colossal swarm of birds.

Finally, following Miss Trinket's ostentatious pink, flowered hat, Clove found her way to the right gangplank, and clambered breathlessly out of the melee, joining the queue of beautifully dressed, orderly people suspended above the mob like the angels of heaven above the rest of humanity.

Miss Trinket adjusted her handbag, pulling out the two boarding passes. "Keep it safe, Clove," she warned. "I don't wish to have to call your father if you lose it."

Clove took the ticket with a brief thank-you, and resumed looking around her, at the fine pale blue linen of the lady in front of her, at the flashes of cameras from the press pen below, at the people dressed in sensible, ordinary clothes boarding further down the ship, like insects moving into a great, communal nest.

At the end of the gangplank, a handsome officer with his brass buttons glinting in the sunlight stood to attention, and whilst Miss Trinket fawned and simpered, Clove looked over the welded, riveted pieces of black metal approvingly. Solidly built, strong, neat; the thousands of workmen had done their job well. Just inside the doorway, another young, handsome uniformed man handed her a little nosegay, and she smiled slightly. It was a nice touch, the flowers; not all liners did it, not even for first class.

After handing in tickets at the Purser's office, another young, uniformed man stepped towards them, executing what must have been a practised and perfected bow, his gold-trimmed hat held against his chest. "Good morning, ladies. I'm Vick Hawthorne, and I will be your bedroom steward for the duration of the voyage. If you would care to follow me, I will show you to your staterooms."

Miss Trinket immediately began to talk, detailing exactly how she wanted everything to be done from the time of breakfast to the tidiness of her stateroom, and Clove trailed behind, marvelling at her surroundings, at the lacing of gold leaf on the cream-painted walls, the mahogany doors at neat, sizeable intervals, the way the carpet sank under her shoes.

She didn't realise that her governess had stopped until she almost walked into her. She clapped a hand to her mouth in mock horror, and the young bedroom steward suppressed a smile. "On the right is Miss Trinket," he said. "And here, on the left, is yours, Miss Andrews. Mr Andrews and his valet are up on A-Deck. We cast off at 12pm, and the best view will be from the Boat Deck at the front of the ship. Is there anything else you require?"

Miss Trinket had opened her door. "No, thank you."

Vick began to walk away, but Clove laid a hand on his arm for a second, stopping him. "Would you send a message to my father, please, and let him know we have embarked safely?"

"Yes, Miss, very good, Miss. If there is anything else you need just ring the bell in your stateroom."

"Thank you." Clove turned towards her stateroom door with a small smile, and pushed it open in one smooth motion, stepping inside and freezing in shock.

It looked like a veritable hurricane had torn through it, sending clothes flying and jewels scattered across the beautiful gilt-adorned dressing table. In the middle of it all was her maid, Madge, on her hands and knees next to the pile of trunks, trying desperately to sort petticoats and jackets and hats.

At the entrance of her young mistress, Madge looked up, frantically. "I'm sorry, Miss, I thought these would have arrived before now, but they didn't, oh it was all meant to be done before you got here…"

"Calm down," Clove said, joining her maid on the floor. "Here, let me help."

"But…"

"No buts. It doesn't matter, so long as no-one breathes a word to Miss Trinket. Are your family settled?"

"Yes, we got here bright and early; some of the first ones they let on."

"How are your parents?"

"Mummy is unpacking and Father has found some other men to talk to." Madge was smiling fondly as she folded the froth of white petticoats and laid them in the trunk at the foot of the bed. "They're both happy to be coming to America, and I'm very grateful to you, Miss, for bringing us on such a grand adventure."

"It's my pleasure." Clove began to arrange the shoes along the bottom of the wardrobe. The sooner they finished, the sooner they would be able to ascend to the Boat Deck (or the third-class equivalent) for the beginning of the voyage.

Madge was humming a little tune under her breath as she sorted, her blonde braid swinging against the pattern of her neat grey dress, and Clove joined in with the words as she moved onto the boxes of jewellery on the dressing table, sparkling in the weak sunlight from the porthole. It was so pleasant, to get on with one's maid, she reflected. But, then again, she and Madge were near enough the same age, and Madge had been at her family's estate for longer than she could remember; they had always played together as children, and when Madge's mother became ill with sudden, splitting migraines, it was only sense that Madge took over her role as lady's maid, except to Clove, not the mistress of the house.

"Finished," Madge sat back on her heels to admire her handiwork, the dresses arranged by colour and the undergarments away in the trunk.

"Well, you can go and find your parents, if you wish," Clove looked up from the dressing table. "I'm sure there will be quite a party down in steerage. I do hear that it's as nice as second-class on other liners."

"It is, Miss, very nice. Do you need anything else? A coat, perhaps? It might be little brisk out on deck."

"I'll find it myself, thank you. Have the afternoon off to explore; just be back here to help me dress for dinner. And bring any interesting stories with you."

With the small curtsey that no matter how hard Clove tried to dissuade her from, Madge clung to like a drowning woman clutching a piece of driftwood, she left, shutting the door carefully behind her.

Clove sat down in the padded chair in front of her mirror, slumping for a second, before pulling upright and smiling at her reflection. The voyage was starting aboard the ship of dreams.

Everything would be perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **Wow, thank you so much for all the reviews! You do not know how much that means to me. I'm giving you the next chapter early because I'm ahead in my writing schedule, so here you go. I hope you are enjoying your voyage.

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**Two**

Towards midday, after exploring her stateroom and taking a trip down the corridors to see the elevators and the Grand Staircase, Clove found one of her coats and followed the stream of people flowing towards the Boat Deck like a shoal of silvery fish. By lucky chance, she had managed to evade Miss Trinket earlier and now found her way up to the front of the rail, looking down almost one hundred feet on the people gathered below to see the great ship off on her maiden voyage, tiny and insignificant as ants.

A considerable roar went up from the crowd on the quayside as the great ship's engines began to rumble like a bear waking from its winter hibernation, and, with the help of a team of assembled tugboats, it began to move, ever-so-slowly. Clove clutched at the railings with gloved hands, silently ecstatic as the water parted before the prow and an expanse of blue grew between the edge of the ship and the dock. This was always the most exciting part of a voyage, the setting off into the great sapphire unknown with whistles blowing and people cheering and the universal wonder at the fruit of years of labour.

She remembered the very first time she had voyaged on a ship, much smaller than the Titanic, of course, and how she had clutched her father's hand as they stood in the very prow as the ship sailed out of harbour to the sound of a crowd shouting, beaming with excitement at the feel of the engines throbbing within the hull.

Suddenly, there was a crack, and several people screamed, expecting that something had gone wrong with the ship, there was something wrong and they were barely out in Southampton Water, but no, it was another ship, with two tall black funnels, pulled inexorably towards them by the wake of the Titanic. Clove held tightly onto the rail, one hand pressed against her mouth as the floundering ship drew closer, like a moth drawn to a lighted candle. But one of the tugboats was already moving, and another cheer went up as the wayward ship was towed safely back to its moorings. Relief rose like a wave over the onlookers, and the Titanic kept moving, out into the bay until the city of Southampton was disappearing into the distance and the passengers began talking animatedly about the near-miss.

"That was too close for my liking," a voice said next to Clove's ear and she jumped at the familiar light brogue, turning and flinging herself into her father's arms without a thought for propriety. "Hello, darling."

"I missed you," she said into the softness of his jacket shoulder, ignoring the whispers from fellow passengers. _Look, it's Mr Andrews, the designer and his daughter. Look, look, over there. _

"I missed you too." He released her, straightening her coat as though she were the same age as her little sister. "How is your step-mother? And where is Miss Trinket? I don't see her anywhere."

"Ssh," Clove whispered. "I've been hiding from her. And yes, Helen is well."

Chuckling at his daughter's reluctance to bear the company of her governess, her father offered his arm. "May I escort you into luncheon, then, my dear?"

"You certainly may, Papa," Clove took his arm just as a bugler, resplendent in bright blue and brass buttons, began to play and people moved towards the Grand Staircase in a rustling of expensive skirts and top hats.

They descended the grand staircase with her father pointing out the chandeliers and the great clock on the landing at which they entered the Dining Saloon, finding a table clothed in white linen and bedecked with a little vase of flowers. The rest of the table quickly filled with two couples and a young American woman; fortunately Miss Trinket seemed to have found elsewhere for luncheon.

The luncheon itself was far grander fare than Clove was used to at home, and the conversation was all about the ship, questions directed at her father which he fended off with an amiable smile over the paper-thin slices of roast meat. The American woman seated next to Clove introduced herself as Glimmer; she was younger than Clove had realised, only eighteen or so, and somewhat vapid with floating blonde hair and a flashy, ostentatious diamond engagement ring on her fourth finger.

"Oh, I miss America dearly. The English are so stuffy," she answered when questioned politely about her homeland, not appearing to notice that her comment had caused many subtle glares in her direction. As an afterthought, she added, "Though you don't seem too awful, Miss Andrews."

"I'm Irish," Clove snapped back, jamming her fork into her fruit tart with a little too much violence, indeed, both of the English ladies looked quite taken aback. Her father gave her a pointed look and she made a concerted effort to keep from repeating that _scandalous _action; really, it was not like she had done something truly awful (though she knew her father wouldn't put it past her).

Finally, when luncheon was over, Clove pressed a kiss to her father's cheek, bid the ladies goodbye and left the Dining Saloon and the stupid, air-headed Miss Glimmer to explore the ship a little more. Really, socialites (for Glimmer could be nothing else) were so infuriating! And who gave their child a name like that in the civilized world?

Putting aside the slight with a huff, Clove ascended in one of the lifts to the next deck. In the course of the afternoon, she discovered the whereabouts of the gymnasium, the Turkish Baths, the swimming pool, three other places in which they could eat. She had overheard many conversations in which the plans for the ship were being discussed, but never had they prepared her for the sheer splendour of what had been achieved.

Eventually, she wandered back to her stateroom, only to discover that it was only four o'clock, so she settled herself in one of the upholstered chairs with her battered and worn copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' by Miss Jane Austen, flipping idly through the dog-eared pages. She had loved this book for a very long time; her father had always used to take fifteen minutes each evening to read to her when he came to kiss her goodnight, and he had always put on the most ridiculous voice for Mrs Bennet, the rambunctious mother of the five Bennet sisters around which the book was based.

So lost was she in her novel that she did not notice Madge's quiet entrance until her maid was tapping her shoulder. "Miss Clove? It's time to dress for dinner."

Clove started and looked up. "Already?"

Madge smiled. "Yes, already, I'm afraid. What do you want to wear tonight?"

"The blue," Clove decided, putting her book aside on the polished table and rising to open the wardrobe.

She stood still as Madge fussed over the laces of her corset, and helped her into the light blue gown, smoothing the floating layers of chiffon and lace, and re-pinning her dark hair up at the nape of her neck.

"How is it downstairs?" Clove asked as Madge tucked the last pin into her hair. "Have you had a good afternoon?"

"Yes, Miss," Madge said. "I met two girls across the way from us; they're very pleasant, though the eldest girl is rather sullen at times. They're from Liverpool; her fiancé is working as part of the engine-crew and she has the dearest little sister."

"Well, you shall have to show me around down there," Clove smiled as Madge laced a string of pearls around her neck. "Papa always likes to know how people find the conditions, especially in third-class. Have you any other news?"

"We should be arriving at Cherbourg somewhere within the next half-hour," Madge told her, handing her a pair of white silk gloves to pull over her slender fingers.

"But the ship is too big to fit into the harbour," Clove chuckled. "Papa told me; he said that many passengers waiting in Cherbourg are not amused."

Madge shook her head. "It is a grand ship, you can tell your father that most in steerage are very pleased with their rooms and everything available to them."

"Thank you, Madge." Clove stood. "Now, go and have your dinner. I'll only need a little help to get out of this wretched corset at the end of the evening. Have a good time for me; Lord knows I'll be stuck talking to some old, boring aristocrats over dinner tonight."

"As long as you don't do anything too outrageous, you should survive just fine, Miss."

There was a knock at the door, at that moment, and Clove went to answer it in a rustling of silk and chiffon. "Good evening, Papa."

"Good evening, my dear. You look beautiful," he smiled, a hint of unexplained sadness in his eyes.

Clove took his hand for a second, and then her father cleared his throat, stepping out into the corridor. Miss Trinket was waiting outside her own stateroom, swathed in a pink silk dress bought out of her savings for the occasion, smiling brightly if a little too widely. "Hello, Clove, dear," she started, too shrilly for Clove's tastes. "I didn't see you all day today, but never mind, your father says that you should have no lessons until we reach New York."

"Really, Papa?" Clove smiled, and her father winked conspiratorially, his good humour restored.

"So long as you don't tell your stepmother."

"Never fear, Papa. I wouldn't dream of it."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **So, hello. Thank you for all the reviews, favourites and follows! If you haven't dropped me a review, please do, I'd love to hear it. From now on, I'm going to update on a Friday evening; it gives me a chance to get each chapter done properly, since I'm going back into a very, very busy school life as of Monday. As a side note, I finished the book 'The Light Between Oceans' by M. - it's a really wonderful book, and if you like historical fiction, then you should definitely try it!

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After dinner that night, in which their table was presided over by Captain Smith himself, Clove found herself ambling along the Promenade on A-Deck, watching the stars and city lights of Cherbourg twinkle against the drapery of the black velvet night, the waves swooshing against the hull as the Titanic sat at rest, awaiting the beginning of the next leg of the voyage.

It was all rather splendid so far, this voyage, and there was so much to see. The captain had even offered to show her the bridge, since she was his esteemed colleague's daughter and she had thanked him gladly; unlike other ladies who were perfectly content to sit in the writing room or the reception room, talking over afternoon tea, she had always loved finding how the mechanics of ships worked, the boiler rooms, the bridge, the hidden places that no first-class passenger would think of entering. It was all so fascinating, the way such a huge ship was run.

Unfortunately, that awful Miss Glimmer had spotted her when the men retired to the first-class smoking room for cigars and brandy, and Clove had had to make an escape out to the chilly night air of the Promenade.

All of a sudden, lost in her thoughts, she walked into something hard and solid, and gave a cry of surprise, stumbling backwards and almost tripping over the trailing hem of her gown. Fortunately, a hand closed around her wrist, steadying her and then she was staring into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

"Are you alright, Mademoiselle?" His voice was quiet, with a hint of a French accent and she blinked, tearing her gaze from his and pulling her hand out of his grasp, forcing herself not to blush.

"Perfectly, thank you, Sir," she said, almost too sharply. There was an awkward silence, then he turned to look at the stars.

"You should look where you are walking, next time."

"Yes, I know."

He slanted an intrigued gaze at her through blonde eyelashes that seemed to be far too long for a man, and she fidgeted uncomfortably with the lace on her bodice, angrily unsure as to why she was still hovering.

"Goodnight, then." He flashed her a brief smile and turned, walking away, a tall, straight silhouette in the glow of the gas lamps from the quieting ship.

* * *

The next morning, the cabin steward, Vick, awoke her with tea and scones, and she thanked him as he left to attend to the tinkling bells along the corridor. After eating, and dressing, her father arrived, already smart in his suit and overcoat, and he escorted her to the forecastle on which the bridge was housed, showing a pass to several officers who saluted smartly, and let them through.

The bridge was a hive of activity, with men bustling to and fro like worker ants, and Captain Smith stood at forefront of it all, turning and barking orders to several men at their entrance. "Mr Andrews, Miss Andrews, right on time," he said cordially, coming over and offering his arm to Clove.

He showed Clove around the navigating instruments, the wheel and explained the engines and the ingenious design of her own father that incorporated fifteen watertight bulkheads into the lower decks of which three could be filled with the ship still afloat. It was, he said, the primary reason why the ship was called 'unsinkable.'

Her father and the captain began to talk logistics, then, so Clove quietly excused herself and left, re-tying her straw hat tighter around her head, ascending to the Boat Deck and finding a deck-chair in which she could watch the approach of Ireland.

It was a beautiful country, her homeland, and she rested her chin on her hands. Craggy cliffs were rapidly rising into view, tumbles of grey boulders behind which the verdant countryside rose and fell in a wave of emerald fields and hills. Her mother had been from Queenstown, until she had met Clove's father; then they had moved to Dublin, though in truth, all Clove remembered of that place was the rented room that leaked whenever it rained and the smell of smog from the city's many factories.

The wind began to pick up, and others crowding the Boat Deck for this first glimpse of Ireland began to hurry inside, away from the sting of air that, although it was April, still carried with it the chill of the long-gone winter. Clove stayed where she was, pulling her coat tighter around her, and making sure her hat was not likely to blow away.

"Clover!" A shrill voice called, and Clove winced, looking over her shoulder to see Miss Glimmer hurrying towards her, green skirts billowing a little in the breeze. Was it only Glimmer who made up ridiculous nicknames for acquaintances she had met only the previous day? (But no, come to think of it, Clove had heard another rather boisterous woman greet someone with a delighted cry of 'Jojo! How are you?' Perhaps it was Americans.)

"Miss Glimmer," Clove said, rather coldly, sitting up straight and stiff as Miss Glimmer sat herself in the chair next to her in a fluttering of petticoats and silk, a fur-edged scarf clutched around her dainty throat.

"Isn't it simply marvellous? Ireland is so beautiful; so much more than America. I see why you're so proud of being Irish."

Slightly stunned at the compliment, Clove recovered her poise and managed a rather forced smile. "Yes, it is."

"Where do you come from in Ireland?"

"Belfast, in Northern Ireland." Clove paused for a second, turning her head back towards the landscape drawing ever nearer. "My mother came from Queenstown, where we will be docking."

"How wonderful! I assume your mother…"

"Is dead," Clove interjected, standing up swiftly with a slight sick feeling in her stomach that always surfaced when her mother was mentioned so casually. Glimmer looked disappointed, but made no move to stop her as Clove walked away across the deck.

* * *

After dressing for dinner that evening with Madge's help, Clove was once again collected by her father.

"Miss Trinket has found some friends to have dinner with," he told her, and Clove nodded, taking his arm, inherently grateful at not having to suffer through any more time with Miss Trinket than utterly necessary.

"Thank you, Papa."

"It's no problem. Now, I thought that we would try the A La Carte Restaurant today, as we have been invited by a certain Monsieur Guillory to dine with his family. A French politician, I am led to believe. I hope your French is up to scratch, my dear."

"Well…I could attempt a sentence or two, but I wouldn't like to offend them with my appalling accent."

"Better not, then." Her father's eyes crinkled a little as he smiled down at her.

From the landing of the Grand Staircase at B-Deck, she could hear the sound of a stringed quintet playing softly as she and her father entered the lavish reception room. A uniformed waiter with a little moustache greeted them politely.

"We have a reservation, with the Guillorys," Clove's father told him, and the waiter bowed a little.

"Of course, sir. This way, if you please."

Clove gazed around her in awe; of the four restaurants on board, this had to be the grandest, the most beautiful. Plush, patterned carpets sank under her feet as the lemon chiffon of tonight's evening gown trailed across the floor behind her, the tables were considerably smaller than those of the Dining Saloon, lit by crystal lamps and adorned by elegant vases of the same, filled with an arrangement of pink roses and white daisies.

The waiter stopped before a round table laid for five, of which three spaces were already taken. The older man on the left stood, heartily shaking Clove's father's hand, his head balding a little and his moustache impeccably waxed. The woman was dressed in a deep plum colour, blonde hair piled onto her head, and the other young man…

Clove froze.

The other young man had blonde hair and blue eyes that widened in recognition as he took her proffered hand, brushing a kiss across the back of it and helping her into her seat, a slightly arrogant smile pulling up one corner of his lips. She blushed a little, and cursed herself inside. Since when did Clove Andrews blush over the smile of a handsome man?

"May I present my eldest son, Cato. Cato, this charming young lady is Mr Andrews' eldest daughter, Clove."

"Enchanté, Mademoiselle."

Clove raised an eyebrow. "Yes, it's a pleasure to meet you too."

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**A/N **If anyone is interested, Cato's surname, 'Guillory' is French, but of Germanic origin, and means 'powerful will.' I thought it was suitable. (And the French he uses is 'Enchanted, Miss.')


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **Here you are, as promised. Friday evening, and chapter four! Thank you very much to 'billie' for the kind review, I wish you had an account, then I could reply to you in person! Another great big thank you to FredNeverDies for being there for me to bounce ideas off of - thank you, your ideas have been really helpful!

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**Four**

"How do you consider the voyage to be progressing, Mr Andrews?"

"Well, I believe. We are heading out into the Atlantic, as you may know, and making good time."

Clove sat silently, picking at her lobster as the three adults talked, about the ship, about politics, tensing whenever her gloved hand brushed against Cato's. He was eating quietly too, but that slight smirk had not left his face. The air felt thick enough to cut with her knife.

Eventually, his mother looked towards Clove. "So, tell me, Miss Andrews, how are you enjoying being aboard your father's ship?"

"I have to say that I think it is the best I've ever travelled on," Clove said, smiling fondly at her father.

"Which others do you compare it to?" Cato asked, his eyes finding her face.

She raised an eyebrow. "The Olympic, and many other ships of the White Star Line. I always accompany Papa, of course."

"But what of your mother?" Madame Guillory looked between her son and Clove. "Does she not enjoy travelling?"

"Miss Andrews' _step_mother has never been able to find her sea-legs," Clove's father said, swiftly changing the subject at the look on Clove's face. "She is also loath to leave our younger daughter Elba behind in the care of her nurses."

The conversation moved into safer waters as Madame Guillory took the bait of talk of children like a silver fish snapping at the hook, and once again, the adults began to converse as a waiter whisked their plates away and brought out the next course.

"You have a sister?" Cato turned a little in his chair, his tone one of polite curiosity.

"Yes, Elba. She is two years old. Do you have any siblings?"

"Three. Two sisters and a brother; they are being looked after by their nurse tonight."

"What are their names?" In truth, Clove thought that there was barely anything more boring that discussing little children, but her boredom had to be endured for the sake of good manners.

"Emmanuelle, Hyacinthe and Antoine."

"They sound…delightful."

A genuine, if small, smile spread across his face. "Yes, they are. Sometimes."

By the end of the fruit and cheese course, most topics of conversation had been exhausted and Monsieur Guillory rose. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Andrews, Miss Andrews, and I hope that we shall encounter one another again in the near future. You shall have to call on us when we arrive in New York."

"Thank you," Clove's father said, shaking his hand once again.

Cato offered a hand to help Clove stand. "May I escort Miss Andrews back to her stateroom?"

Clove's father raised an eyebrow, deliberating for a few seconds. "You may, young man."

Clove shot a dark glare at her father, before resuming the pretty smile that she had forced herself to wear all evening, taking the proffered arm and allowing herself to be swept between the tables and out onto the Grand Staircase.

Instead of escorting her back down the stairs towards her stateroom, he turned upwards on the Grand Staircase, the chandeliers glittering in the soft light.

"Where exactly are you 'escorting' me?" Clove demanded. "My stateroom is on C-Deck."

He glanced over at her, and she tried to repress another flush. "The Promenade. I believe it is an English custom, to stroll after dinner?"

"It may be so, but I do not feel like indulging in that custom tonight," she argued. "I am very tired, and my maid will be waiting up for me."

"Your maid should have enough common sense not to, Mademoiselle. But if you insist…"

"Yes, I do," she interrupted. There was irritation rising to the surface of his blue eyes.

"Then I shall take you back. But since you should have recovered by tomorrow, might I have the honour of your company on the Boat Deck after dinner?"

Clove drew in a breath; the sneaky…urgh! How one could call him a gentleman was quite above her understanding! If she did not go with him now, she would have to go tomorrow, and there was no way of avoiding him with so few younger people aboard the ship.

"Of course, Sir," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "I should be delighted."

* * *

The next morning, when the sun was beginning to rise above the blue mantle of the sea in a triumph of rosy gold, Clove followed Madge down the corridor, huddled into some of her maid's clothes so as not to stand out. Many of the first-class had already been 'slumming' – Madge had told her, but Clove did not want to put the third-class on edge with her appearance in fine clothes and jewellery. It was not fair to flaunt her wealth in front of their poverty, like dangling a bone just out of reach of a slavering dog.

They took the lift all the way down to F-Deck, and Madge grasped her hand as they approached the small gate dividing the second and third class areas. A white-uniformed steward stood next to it, holding a set of keys in his hand. "Morning, Miss Undersee," he said, warily. "Who's this?"

"My friend," Madge lied, squeezing Clove's hand. "She's the maid to the family along the corridor from the Andrews, sir."

The steward nodded, and turned to unlock the gate in a clanking of metal, pulling it just far aside to let the two girls in.

"Thank you," Madge called over her shoulder, beginning to walk purposefully away, Clove following her as she looked around. It was alright, she guessed. Far better than third class on some other liners; the carpet was brown, but there was a carpet. The paint on the walls was white and not flaking. The people she passed, bustling to and fro in drab clothes and tired eyes, did not look displeased with their surroundings.

Finally, Madge stopped at a door labelled F-79, knocking lightly on the door. "Mummy? It's me."

There was a sound of footsteps, and then the door creaked open, revealing a thin, birdlike little woman in a loose brown skirt and blouse. She beamed at the sight of her daughter. "Good morning, Madge. This is early for you."

"I brought a visitor; she has to be back upstairs for luncheon," Madge explained, stepping into the room so that her mother could see Clove.

Her mother's face paled a little. "Miss Andrews?"

"The very same. I expect I've changed since you last saw me."

"But…but what are you doing down here, Miss, you're not supposed to…"

"It's alright. Papa always wants to know people's opinions, so I decided I'd do a little reconnaissance; Madge has told me a lot about what it is like down here, but I thought it would be good to see it for myself."

"Well," Mrs Undersee stepped aside in a fluttering of hands in the lukewarm air. "You must come in, then."

"Thank you."

Clove stepped into the small room, and Mrs Undersee seated herself on the lower bunk. "It's not much, Miss, but…"

Clove could only smile. There was a set of bunk beds, white panelling on the walls and a mirror, two trunks for clothes. It put to shame the steerages she had seen where people were crowded into the hold like cattle at a market, food was slop in great pans and the smell was verging on diabolical.

"It's a sight nicer than other steerages Miss Clove has taken me around, Mummy," Madge said quietly. "We're very lucky."

"Yes, I know," Mrs Undersee nodded, taking her daughter's hand for a second, fondly. "Look, my dear, go and introduce Miss Clove to those two girls across the hall, and show her the dining saloon. Then it'll be almost time for her luncheon and our dinner."

"Yes, Mummy. Miss Clove, why don't you come and meet the girls I told you about on the first night?"

"Of course. I would be delighted," Clove replied, taking a final look around. "It was lovely to see you, Mrs Undersee, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your voyage."

"Bless you, Miss," Mrs Undersee said. "Thank you most kindly for giving us this opportunity."

Madge shut the door quietly behind them, and took three steps to the other side of the corridor, knocking on the door opposite. It flung open abruptly, and a girl stood there, dark hair severely braided and a scowl on her face. The scowl dissipated slightly, and the girl almost managed a smile. "Oh, Madge. It's you."

"Hello, Katniss," Madge said. "I've brought someone to meet you."

Katniss narrowed her eyes at Clove, leaning against the doorway so that they couldn't enter. "Who?"

"This is Miss Clove Andrews. Miss Clove, this is Katniss Everdeen."

"You're from up there, aren't you?" The scowl was back on Katniss' face, wrinkling up her otherwise pretty features into a mask of distrust. "One of the hoity-toity posh lot."

"Katniss!" Madge chided, a flush rising to her cheeks, but Clove didn't care, angered by the way in which she was being spoken to. Being the beloved daughter and only woman of the Andrews household for such a long time, she was used to bowed heads and gentle tones of respect.

"Call me posh, but at least I have better manners than you do!" She snapped back.

"How precious," Katniss said, scathing. "Now, Madge, please take her away, I'm trying to get Prim…"

"Who's this, Katniss?" A high, piping voice sounded from inside the cabin, and Katniss looked even angrier as a little blonde head slipped under her arm and into the corridor.

"Prim, get back inside."

"No." The girl shook her head and held out a dainty hand. "Hello, I'm Primrose Everdeen. I'm sorry if my sister is being rude." (At this, Katniss scowled even more).

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Primrose. I'm Clove Andrews."

Primrose's face lit up. "Are you related to that man Madge was telling me about? The one who designed this whole ship?"

"Yes, I am." There was something about this girl (who could be no more than eleven or twelve) that made Clove think of spring, of sunshine and forget-me-nots. "I'm his daughter."

Primrose's eyes widened, and she clapped a dainty little hand to her mouth. "Cor, Miss, that's marvellous, that is!"

Clove smiled, and Katniss closed her hand around her sister's arm, but there was more exasperation to the movement than anger. "Come on, Prim. Peeta is going to be waiting for us."

"Alright," Primrose said, suddenly the picture of neatness, and Katniss all but slammed the door in their faces.

"A few manners surely would not go amiss when talking to her betters," Clove muttered under her breath.

"She's had to be the head of her family since she was eleven years old, Miss. Her father died and her mother got sick. She…she does not trust easily, especially not people she thinks have been fed with a silver spoon their whole lives."

"I can see that."

They were almost at the gate again, when there was a pounding of small feet. Clove looked over her shoulder to see little, blonde Primrose Everdeen running towards them, her cheeks flushed. "Miss Clove!" she called.

Clove turned. "Yes?"

The girl stopped in front of her. "Can you tell your Papa that this ship is the right nicest thing ever to sail the seas?"

"Yes, Prim. Of course I can."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **Dear readers, hello. Here is your usual Friday update; thank you very much for Guest and billie again who reviewed, it's lovely to hear from you. On a side note, I will be hopping and skipping through the previous chapters doing a little editing at some point to make the later chapters run more smoothly. Enjoy!

* * *

**Five**

That evening, after dinner, Clove kissed her father goodnight and headed out onto the deserted Boat Deck, pulling at the dark blue silk dress and the old pearl and silver-bead necklace around her throat. It was chilly, outside, since they were in the very middle of the ocean, now, with no land to protect them from the penetrating cold. He was standing a little way down the deck, leaning against the rail, a debonair figure in his white tie and polished shoes.

She approached him reluctantly, her stomach twisting and her head thinking over why she was doing this. What did he want, meeting her so late with no chaperone? What did he want from her? To talk, or something more?

"Miss Andrews," he said in greeting, kissing her hand again and she cursed herself for blushing. There was no need for such a display; why, the arrogant fool might even think she was attracted to him if she kept on behaving in such a fashion!

"Mr Guillory," she replied, cold, aloof.

"I assume that you are wondering at my persistence," he paused, looking out towards the sea, the midnight waves washing against the hull as the steady throb of the engines propelled the Titanic smoothly through the night, like a hot knife through butter. "I wish to know you better, Miss Andrews, and it would be difficult, surrounded by so many others asking inane questions."

"Normal people find it easy to learn of each other around other people," Clove said cuttingly, seating herself on a bench with her ankles crossed demurely.

"I do not think of myself as normal."

"What are you then? A Greek demigod, perhaps?"

"No, that goes a little far," he chuckled, seating himself next to her, though maintaining the proper distance. "You are close with your father?"

"How is that of any matter to you?"

"It was a fair question." He sighed, and looked at her, his eyes the colour of sapphires in the liquid shadows from a lamp further down the Boat Deck. "My real mother died when I was nine. The current Madame Guillory is my second step-mother, so I do know some of the pain you have suffered."

"What made you come to the conclusion that I was suffering?"

"I could see it. It's easy to look for if you know what you are trying to find."

They sat in silence for a while, Clove taking in deep, slow breaths. The subject of her mother always brought up unwanted memories: the rattle of the windows whenever a train passed below their window, the bruise-like shadows under her mother's eyes, and the endless streams of men coming and going through the doorway.

"What was she like?" he asked, eventually, his voice breaking the crisp air.

"My mother?" Clove looked up from her hands. "She was beautiful…I…I always thought that, even right until the very end, but I think she resented me, a little, because I reminded her of my father."

Questions hung in the air, curious, prying, but he stayed silent, only reaching to touch her hand very gently. She blinked back sudden tears; memories spiralling out of control in the blackness.

"It is sad, when parents blame children for things out of their control."

She looked at him in surprise. "Can you really expect anything different, when she felt that she was abandoned and left to raise me all on her own?"

"Surely your father didn't just leave her?"

"No, he didn't, at least, not from what he has told me."

Clove shook her head, dark hairs coming loose from the hairpins. What a bizarre night this was becoming; conversing with a complete stranger in the light from the lamps and stars when any decent person would be abed. Glancing at his profile, still and pensive now, lost in his own thoughts, she could not help feeling her irritation with his façade of calmness and arrogance dissipate a little, in this shared camaraderie of loss and step-mothers.

"Well," she stood, forcing the sickening feeling of guilt and sadness below a mien of indifference. "I should return to my stateroom."

"Let me escort you."

"You have already proved you are no gentleman having me out at this hour. I am quite happy to escort myself."

He chuckled again, sharp against the stillness. "I insist."

"No. I am perfectly capable of managing on my own. I bid you goodnight."

Before he had a chance to respond, she had disappeared, taking a short-cut from the Boat Deck and down a set of stairs that she should not have even known the existence of but had stumbled across in her thorough examination of the ship.

By the time she had reached her stateroom, and Madge had helped her out of the gown and corset, she had calmed slightly. There was no reason to worry. She could hide behind her gilded shield of sarcasm and wit, and in only four days or so, they would be docking in America, and she would never have to see Monsieur Cato Guillory ever again. Why that sent a little twinge wriggling its way into her chest she would never understand.

* * *

The morning dawned in pale pinks and golds, the fiery sun rising from the oceans, Apollo on his chariot ready to ride across the azure arc of the sky. Clove rose late, and found her way to the heated swimming pool, determined to sample all the luxuries the Titanic had to offer before they docked in three days' time. It was only the second of its kind, she remembered as she changed into her striped bathing suit, tying up her hair, and almost deserted at this hour, most passengers having gone for an early-morning swim before breakfast.

She climbed into the pool neatly, remembering the way her father had taught her when they visited the seaside when she was a child. The warm water lapped against her skin, and she dove under the water, kicking her legs strongly and enjoying the stretching of her muscles, the way the water rippled as she let her fingers trail along the tiled floor. Eventually, she had to come up for air, and she saw she had been joined by a young man and a young woman, fearlessly splashing each other in a way that seemed almost too familiar and improper for a public place.

When they noticed her presence, the woman swam over, her chestnut hair trailing out behind her like strands of seaweed. "Is this swimming pool not divine?" she asked.

Clove managed a smile. "Yes, it is. Do you come here often?"

"Oh, every day, almost. I have never experienced a heated pool before, it is simply marvellous. Do you enjoy swimming?"

There was something so innocent and open about her that Clove couldn't find it in herself to be too guarded. "Yes, I do enjoy it. There is something about the feel of the water, don't you agree?"

The woman regarded her for a second. "I'm Annie," she said, suddenly. "Annie Odair, and that," she nodded to the young man, now swimming length after length fully underwater like some kind of dolphin, "is my husband, Finnick."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Odair. I'm Clove Andrews."

"Andrews…I know that name."

"My father designed the ship." (In all honesty, Clove was getting rather sick of explaining this).

The woman smiled. "He did a fine job of it. Can I tempt you into doing some lengths with us? Then I was planning on leaving Finnick here and trying the Turkish Baths to clean off; I have heard that they are simply heavenly."

"Yes, I should like that," Clove said, and both women began to swim again.

* * *

Annie Odair turned out to be very good company; when they left her charming, bronze-haired husband behind in the pool, she began to tell the funniest stories. She and Finnick had known each other since they were children, it transpired, and it was only natural that they should fall in love and marry, but even her love for her husband did not stop Annie from telling Clove all the embarrassing situations Finnick had managed to get into over the years.

They sat in the hot room together, Clove began to relax. There was something comforting about the utter abandonment in which Annie skipped from topic to topic, not withholding any juicy piece of gossip or scandal, and before long, Clove found herself confiding things she had not even told Madge. About how, usually, her step-mother was a charming woman with impeccable manners, but that sometimes the coldness came out, and the resentment towards Clove for being the daughter of the woman Clove's father had loved utterly to distraction. The prejudice and some of the scathing glances, the little comments of how Clove's father and mother had not been properly married, there was only a blessing between them and no legal paperwork at all.

When they parted ways, after exchanging stateroom details, Annie kissed her freckled cheek and squeezed her hands. "It was an absolute delight to meet you, Clove, and if you ever wish to come and talk, I am always around somewhere."

"Thank you," Clove smiled, a genuine proper smile and kissed Annie's smooth cheek in return. "Perhaps I will persuade Papa to sit with you at dinner tonight."

"Wonderful," Annie said, turning away. "I should better go and make sure Finnick has not gone looking for trouble in my absence."

Clove turned, and walked slowly towards her stateroom to dress properly for luncheon, thinking of how pleasant it was to have made a friend.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **Well hello there, another Friday has rolled around already. Here is the next chapter. And, as a special treat, the first person to get the Love Never Dies reference (and I will PM you if you are the first) can choose a character who may be safely saved from the Ship of Dreams. May the odds be ever in your favour! (P.S. Thank you to Guest and analeah for reviewing!)

* * *

**Six**

They dined with the Odairs that night, and another, older woman named Margaret (but she insisted that she was to be known as Mags). It was good company, and laughter abounded freely as they tucked into the meal, Annie and Clove sitting together and talking, whilst Mags, Mr Odair and Clove's father discussed Ireland, and the next ship he had been drafted to design.

Afterwards, Clove tucked her hand into the crook of her father's arm, and they strolled slowly down the staircase from the dining saloon, enjoying the relative quiet and peace they were afforded among the chatter of late diners flocking back towards their staterooms like a murmuration of starlings flying to the marshes to nest for the night.

"I have received a request," Clove's father said rather suddenly as they approached the door to Clove's stateroom.

"Of what, Papa? Someone wanting you to design a ship for them?"

"No," Clove's father turned to face her, his brown eyes tired and little lines she had not noticed previously etched in the skin of his face. "I have received a request from Mr Cato Guillory. He wants to court you."

"What?" Clove's head whipped around sharply.

"Clove." Her father's voice held a note of reprimand. "There is no need to fly off the handle. I said I would consider it."

"I should hope that you will turn his suit down. I do not wish to spend any more time with him than utterly necessary!"

"Is there a particular reason why?" Clove's father looked up and down the hall; luckily there was no-one in view to spectate at the scene his daughter was making.

"He's…well, there is a whole list of reasons, Papa. He's arrogant, self-centred, he's _French._"

"_Clove. _This is the twentieth century, not the middle of the Hundred Years War. I find him rather good company, and you seemed to get on well at dinner on Thursday."

"That is because I have manners and I did not want to shame you in front of his father."

"I think you are being unreasonable, Clove, and I want you to think over the proposition before tomorrow. Your stepmother wishes to see you settled, and I would rather it was to someone of your own age than to the long list of suitors she seems determined to draw up."

"My answer is no."

"Think on it." Her father's voice was uncharacteristically angry, and she let out a long sigh.

"Yes. I will think about it, but I doubt you will find my opinion has changed overnight."

Her father harrumphed and leant forward to kiss her forehead. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, _Father._"

She went into her stateroom, slamming the door shut behind her far too forcefully and falling into the first chair she saw. Madge, sorting jewellery on the dressing table, turned at the noise. "Miss Clove? What's happened?"

"Nothing, Madge, nothing. A difference of opinions between myself and my father, that is all. I think I can undress without any help tonight, thank you."

"Very good, Miss Clove. I will see you in the morning."

"See you in the morning, Madge."

The maid left, and Clove mechanically stood, undoing the hooks on her dress and the laces of the (thankfully) front-lacing corset before finding a clean nightgown. If she ignored the issue for a few days, it would go away with their arrival in America. She and her father would head back to Ireland, and he would go to France or wherever his destination was.

She began to pace, her nightgown washing against her legs in a crinkling of fine, embroidered silk, her thoughts whirling like a carousel at a fairground. She did not like him. She did not…there was nothing to it other than the fact that Clove Andrews was not interested in men; she never had been and she never would be. They were faithless, careless and heartbreaking; she had seen what had happened to Madge, to another maid, what-was-her-name? Finch; that was it. Not to even mention her mother (though in truth, it was not Clove's father's fault that Johanna had fallen so low).

Madge had fallen madly in love with a young, handsome sailor, and he had, at first, seemed to return that love, to bring her little trinkets bought from his salary, to take her out to dances and dinners and then he had left on a ship, found another girl across the sea in America and left Madge heart-broken, staining the shoulder of Clove's blouse with her salty tears. Finch, the other girl; her sweetheart had been killed at the docks, when a crane broke and a stack of crates fell. She had never been the same again.

It would not happen to Clove, she had sworn it time and time again, even going as far to consider taking vows and joining a convent. And before, she had been attracted to no-one. The dock-workers were all big and burly and scarred, the young men they entertained at their house in Belfast were arrogant snobs who thought nothing of the opinions of others; once they learned of the status of her birth, they retracted their suits and fled to the dining rooms of more wholesome girls, girls born within the confines of a marriage bed. There was no reason why Cato Guillory should not be the same.

But now, thinking of him in the half-light, his blue eyes piercing her own like a deadly poison-tipped arrow, she felt heat bloom in her stomach, chills down her spine.

Before she could give in, she shook her head firmly, climbing into bed. Nothing would come of it, just as nothing had ever come of any other boys chasing after her. She was known to be cold, like a stone, and she would keep it that way, whatever came along, no matter how many suitors her stepmother forced her to entertain.

In any case, he would run, when he found out the bitter truth.

Why that made sadness spear against her ribs, she could not understand.

* * *

"It is our last proper day today," Clove told Madge the next morning, lazing on her divan and sipping at a cup of tea. "You should go and enjoy yourself with Katniss and Prim, and who is that other girl you were telling me about?"

"Delly, Miss," Madge said, dusting along the top of the vanity. "Are you sure you will not need any help during the day? I'm perfectly happy to…"

"No, go," Clove made a shooing motion with her hand, reaching out for the daily copy of the ship's newspaper, The Atlantic Daily Bulletin.

"Thank you, Miss." Madge made a curtsey and left, shutting the door quietly behind her. The woman along the corridor from Clove kept her maid busy at all hours of the day and night, but Clove did not see the sense in forcing Madge to do that, since she was capable of managing on her own.

Eventually, after browsing the society gossip amongst the crinkling pages of newsprint, Clove roused herself and dressed, tying on her straw hat and adventuring up to Boat Deck. Her father, presumably, was prowling the ship as he was wont to do, or with Captain Smith in the Bridge; either way she did not feel like seeing him as the argument of last night was still fresh upon her mind.

She found Annie reclining on a deck chair near the prow, and the two young women began to talk in the easy way of new friends; Annie waxing lyrical about the splendours of New York. "You must see an Opera at the Met whilst you are there; it is incredible, though I do believe Covent Garden has a slightly higher standard, and you, my dear, might enjoy Coney Island; it should be already open for the summer, I believe, and has the most splendid amusement parks in which to while away a day."

"I am sure I will persuade Papa," Clove smiled.

Then, there was a movement out of the corner of her eye, and she stiffened, glancing sideways through her lashes. Mr Cato Guillory was standing by the opposite rail, not having noticed her yet, thankfully, but what shocked her the most was the fact he was laughing, carefree and (dare she admit it) beautiful as three children ran about before him in a confusion of curls and petticoats, the little boy waving a wooden sword.

"I have seen them up here before," Annie remarked quietly. "Those children; they are the dearest little things, so well-mannered and polite; see the little boy, he's no more than five years old and insists on 'escorting' his older sisters everywhere."

"How delightful," Clove looked away, but he had noticed them by then and was striding over with the children trailing like ducklings behind him.

"Miss Andrews, what a pleasant surprise," he said cordially, his blue eyes dancing merrily.

"Yes, how pleasant." Clove avoided his eyes, fighting back a blush as he pressed a kiss as light as a butterfly's touch to the back of her hand. His charm would not seduce her, his smiles would not lodge themselves into her heart like arrows. She just had to breathe, _breathe._

"May I introduce my companion?" Clove suddenly remembered her manners, turning back to Annie, who had one eyebrow raised slightly and a gleam in her green eyes that told Clove she would not hear the end of this. "This is Mrs Annie Odair. Annie, MonsieurCato Guillory."

"A pleasure, _Madame._" He gave a slight bow. "These are my siblings, Emmanuelle, Hyacinthe and Antoine."

The eldest girl, Emmanuelle, with pretty dark curls and alert grey eyes stepped forward, dipping a curtsey. "It is a delight to meet you, Mademoiselle Andrews. My brother has told me of you and I have hoped that we should meet you up here."

Clove darted an almost-angry glance at Mr Guillory. So he had been talking, had he?

"Yes, it is lovely to meet you too, Miss Guillory. I am so sorry, I have to meet with my father for the Divine Service; I hope to see you all again later, perhaps."

And with that, Clove fled.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **And here we are again, people. Friday. This one is a little shorter, I'm afraid, but the natural break came and I thought it would be better to stop! Enjoy xx

* * *

**Seven**

That evening, after an afternoon of being interrogated by Annie (who failed in trying to extract the information she was so desperate to obtain), Clove stood in front of her mirror with her arms out to the sides like a scarecrow as Madge laced her into her finest evening gown. It was the last night of the voyage in which to be at leisure, for tomorrow night packing would be on everyone's minds.

It was a House of Worth creation, and one her stepmother had insisted on buying, since Clove's older evening gowns were just 'that little out of date.' The dull red was embroidered with sparkling beads and layers of chiffon; after Madge plaited Clove's hair into a round and dressed it with ribbons, Clove felt like a different person, confident, elegant, poised.

Her father collected her, again, but there was a slightly stiff silence as they swept through the throng at the Grand Staircase into the dining saloon, where they were joined at their table by a certain Mr J. Bruce Ismay, his wife and one of his acquaintances, a Mr Snow, who watched her with cold eyes.

The talk of politics swept over Clove's head, so she turned to Mrs Ismay and pretended to enjoy the talk of fashion, of velvets and silks and silhouettes. The wine flowed freely that night, and there was an air of joviality as people rose from their tables at the end of the night.

"Clove," her father started as they approached her stateroom. "I have given you plenty of time to think over _Monsieur _Guillory's proposition."

"I still say no," Clove said firmly, though somewhere inside her a little voice was screaming.

"I am disappointed, but," her father gave her the shadow of a fond smile. "I know your stubbornness too well; you are like your mother in that respect." He passed a hand across his eyes. "I have something of hers for you, Clove; I should have given it to you before, but there never seemed to be a right moment."

She opened the door to her stateroom. "Come in, then."

He took a seat on the divan, and Madge quietly left the room as Clove began to unpin her hair. There was a rustling of paper, and then Clove's father held out a necklace, the slender chain draping over his fingers. Clove took it, marvelling at the intricacy of the gold border, the painted violets on the white porcelain.

"Open it," her father said, closing his eyes and massaging his temples.

She obeyed, her hands trembling slightly. She remembered this; it had been kept in the only locked drawer in the room; Johanna had always taken it out on Clove's birthday, had cried and cried over whatever was inside. The two parts of the locket came apart, and then there was a picture, of a beautiful, young dark-haired woman holding onto her father's arm, the two looking at each other like there was no-one else in the whole world.

"She looks so happy," Clove whispered, tears trembling on her lashes. Johanna had never been happy when Clove was a child, always careworn, bruised; unsmiling except for that awful falseness she wore like a cloak whenever another man came to call.

"We were happy, back then. Before she disappeared. Did you know I spent months looking for her? I called in all the favours I was owed, travelled the length of the country in search for her. I wanted to marry her, you see, and don't forget that I hold your stepmother in the highest regard and I admire her very much, but I adored your mother, Clove. I really did."

A tear trickled down his cheek, and Clove rushed to him, wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders. "Don't cry, Papa, please. It will be alright."

"I'm sorry, my dear." He shook his head, holding her close to him.

"Don't be," Clove said fiercely. "I wish she was here, too, though she never was the most wonderful mother to me I still loved her."

"This is why I want you to marry to someone you are well accorded with. I want to see you happily settled before Helen finds some rich old aristocrat for you."

"I know, Papa, I'm…I'm just scared. I'm scared of men – no, not you, of course – but I…I saw what happened to Madge and to Mother, and…"

Clove's father stared at her, like she had just revealed she was the Virgin Mary reborn. "So that is why you have always been so cold whenever we have been entertaining?"

Lightness infused her at her confession, and she managed a laugh. "Yes. Is it stupid?"

"No, Clove, it isn't. But sometimes you have to trust that not all men are like that, and I think that Cato Guillory is a fair young man with a good heart."

"I know. I'm sorry, Papa, I really am."

"It is not a problem, my dear." Clove's father stood, suppressed a yawn. "I should retire; my valet will be wondering where I have got to. Goodnight, my dear."

"Goodnight, Papa." Clove kissed his cheek and watched as he left, the weight of her fear no longer pressing down upon her so horribly.

* * *

Sometime before midnight, when the stars glowed above the ice-fields like sequins on dark velvet, there was a juddering motion that jerked Clove into wakefulness. She stared into the darkness for a few seconds and held her breath as the steady hum of the ship's engines died slightly, the constant sense of movement slowing.

What had it been?

She waited for another few minutes, then closed her eyes again. Perhaps there had been a mishap in the engine room, or a misdirection in the navigation. Whatever it was there would be an explanation in the morning.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N **Only two or so more chapters to go now, people. No-one found the Phantom of the Opera reference in a previous chapter, so no-one got to save their favourite characters; I'm afraid I've had to take matters into my own hands. Enjoy, review; I would absolutely adore to hear from you.

* * *

**Eight**

_She was back in the room, that awful room with the ripped curtains and the mice squeaking in the walls. Her mother was sitting in the one chair, peering into a cracked mirror, faded, gaunt, her long dark hair lying limply across one shoulder as she applied lipstick to her lips with a shaking hand._

_"Mama," her younger self said. "Mama."_

_"Not now, Clove."_

_There was a knock at the door, and Johanna pressed her lips together, smudging the bright red of them and standing, crossing to the battered wooden doorway._

_"Mama, don't!"_

_"Clove, hush," she said. The knocks grew louder…and louder…_

"Miss Andrews?"

Clove started upright, the voice breaking her dream into a thousand shards that dissolved in the night air. Shaking her head, she swung her feet out of bed and padded across the room, cracking open the door to see Vick Hawthorne, the young cabin steward standing there, fully dressed and smiling.

"Miss Andrews, please get your lifebelt and something warm on and report to Boat Deck as swiftly as you can."

"For whatever reason?" she asked.

"I cannot disclose it, Miss, but you'll want to hurry."

"Thank you, Vick," she said and he moved off down the corridor, knocking on the next door along from hers and repeating the message to the irate woman who answered it.

Hurriedly, she shut her door and crossed to her wardrobe, barely thinking. Surely this was some kind of drill, it wasn't real? She had been caught up in drills before, they were frightening, granted, but all had turned out to be false scares. This one could be the same…but drills weren't usually ordered in the middle of the night, and then there had been that odd jarring motion, like a giant fingernail scraping down the length of the ship…

She opened her wardrobe and dressed in her thickest woollens, wrapping coat after coat around herself, pinning her hair up in a scarf and tying her mother's locket around her neck, taking reassurance from the way it nestled into the hollow of her throat. It would be best to do what Vick had told her to; in situations such as these it was always best to heed those who had some knowledge of what was occurring.

There was knocking, again, and Clove opened the door. Miss Trinket was there, her coat and shawl thrown over her shoulders and her usually-coiffed blonde curls hanging strangely loose, as though she had not taken the time to make them perfect. "Clove, dear, are you ready? Whoever knows what this is about, I have it mind to ask your father to lodge a complaint!"

Clove closed the door to her stateroom behind her, and Miss Trinket took her arm. "Come, then. The sooner we are up there, the sooner it shall be over and we shall be able to return."

"Where's my father?"

"I have no idea; his stateroom is on A-Deck, Clove, you know that. I'm sure he will be up on the Boat Deck soon enough."

The corridors and stairwells were strangely deserted, for all the panicked calm of the staff; few people seemed to have heeded their instructions, though that Miss Glimmer was standing by the rail on Boat Deck, bundled in sables and velvets.

"Clover, oh thank goodness," she said as she saw them. For once, Clove was not exasperated by her airy voice and that irritating nickname. "It's good to see a familiar face; do you know what's happening? All I know is that I woke up because of this strange jarring motion, and then the stewards were waking us all and there were reports of ice on the Third Class Poop Deck…"

"I'm sorry, Glimmer, I had no idea until my bedroom steward woke me," Clove said, tense. The breeze carried the sting of the ice-fields, reddening her cheeks. "I cannot find my father either; he would know."

Glimmer offered a sympathetic look. "Oh well. I guess we shall have to wait here until there are further instructions."

Miss Trinket wrapped her arms tightly around herself, shivering under her layers of coats. Clove quickly made an introduction between the two ladies. There was a definite list to starboard by now, and Clove's heart was pounding against the cage of her ribs. They were sinking. The unsinkable ship was sinking.

People began to spill onto the Boat Deck, ushered forward by harried stewards and seamen, chattering gently to themselves as though nothing were wrong, as though they were taking a stroll after dinner instead of huddled in coats on the deck of a ship, the stars raining cold light from between the jaws of the clouds.

"Miss Andrews," a voice said, close to her ear and Clove jumped, already on edge.

Blue eyes, darkened with something that could have been fear stared into her own. "Mr Guillory," she said softly, almost perversely comforted by his sudden presence.

"They're preparing the lifeboats. I will escort you over," he said, turning to greet the two other white-faced women by the rail.

"Is it as dire as that?" Glimmer asked, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"It seems so," he replied, offering an arm to both Clove and Glimmer. Miss Trinket followed them as they moved through the crowd. The chattering had ceased slightly into an air of irritation and women clutched their husbands' arms, the few children hugged closely to skirts.

"Cato." A figure loomed out of the lamplight, and Cato stopped.

"Père."

His father's face was crinkled in confusion. "What is happening?" he demanded in English.

Cato replied in a stream of almost incoherent French and Clove stared at his father. Her own father – where was he? Miss Trinket said he'd meet them on Boat Deck, but he wasn't here and…

"Women and children, into the lifeboats!" A nearby officer called out, and there was a rustle from amongst the crowd, people reluctant to brave the icy seas in wooden boats when there was light and warmth aboard the unsinkable ship.

Her father. She glanced towards Cato, who was arguing heatedly with his father and let go of his arm, ducking into the crowd, weaving her way through the people. "Get into the lifeboats," she said to everyone she passed, feeling the tilt to the deck grow steeper beneath her feet. "Get into the lifeboats, _please._"

A few heeded her, began towing loved ones in the direction of the seamen's shouts, but others ignored her, turning away to talk to their neighbours of lodging a complaint against the White Star Line for waking them from slumber and letting them freeze to death in the chill from the open ocean.

Then she was at the top of the staircase and haphazardly making her way down it, the fear making her feel sick. Why was she doing this, heading back into a sinking ship?

Her father. She had to find her father.

It felt like hours that she was roaming the corridors of A-Deck, searching every place that he could possibly be, even venturing towards the Bridge only to be turned back by stern officers with worry lines creased at their temples. It was getting hard to walk now; the floor leaning was at quite an angle. She could see life-boats being lowered along the sides of the ship, and a part of her hoped that Miss Trinket was on one of them, that Glimmer was there, Annie, Madge, even that awful girl Katniss and her darling little sister.

Eventually, when she was near to collapse with terrified exhaustion, she spotted two figures silhouetted near the entrance to the Boat Deck. She stumbled up the stairs, and hands were catching at her, holding her elbows tightly.

"Clove?" Her father's voice was horrified as she sagged against him. "Clove, what are you doing here?"

"I…I had to find you, Papa, I…"

There was a shout, and a bang.

White rockets exploded in the air above them. Distress rockets. The ship was really sinking.

"You have to get on a lifeboat." Her father pulled her upright, began to tow her along the port side of the ship.

"I'm not leaving you."

"You are. You are getting in a lifeboat and…"

"Clove!" Mr Guillory's voice. He appeared from behind them. "There you are...I've been looking for you for the past half hour…"

"It's only been half an hour?" Clove shook her head to clear the sudden terror clouding her brain, numbing her senses.

"Yes. You need to get on a lifeboat."

"I'm not leaving," she repeated. "I'm staying with Papa."

"No, you are not," Clove's father forcibly detached her hands from his waistcoat, planted a kiss on her forehead. "Mr Guillory is seeing you into that lifeboat. Now."

"No, Papa! I'm staying here with you, I'm staying…"

"Tell Helen that I'm sorry," he said, stepping away. Clove let out a hoarse scream, tried to run for him but Mr Guillory wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her into the air.

"Let go of me, let go of me!"

There was a sense of motion, and more panicked voices wishing farewells, and then she was dumped into a lifeboat seat and there were hands gripping onto hers and the jerking motion of the boat being lowered over the side and tears were streaming down her face and _he _was standing at the rail, his blue eyes staring at her out of a white, set face.

The boat hit the water with a splash and men began to shout. "Row, row away before we get sucked under!"

She clutched her coat tightly around her, and a pair of green eyes were staring at her out of a stricken face. Annie. "They made me leave Finnick behind," she said, her voice trembling.

Clove clenched her fingers around Annie's tightly, taking in a deep breath of the freezing air. "It will be alright, Annie," she choked out. "It will be alright. They'll find their way back to us."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N **Well, hello again. Only this chapter, one more and an epilogue to go, I'm pleased to announce. Thank you to Guest and Lya200 - it's lovely to hear from you both. Enjoy and review! I would love to hear your response to this chapter.

* * *

**Nine**

When she looked back on that night the thing she remembered most was the coldness and the tears that froze on her cheeks as the boat was rowed doggedly away from the ship. She clung to Annie's hands tightly, her eyes locked on the ship where her father and Mr Guillory and Annie's Finnick were, seeing but not comprehending as water rose through the lighted portholes of C-Deck.

Everyone she loved in the world was still there.

The ship was tipping now, the bow submerged and the stern slowly, inexorably rising into the air, an austere shadow against the giant icebergs and the distant stars. Its lights glowed golden and there were screams and the sound of violins, playing bravely into the night.

Splashes. Another lifeboat, the last lifeboat pulling out to sea. People's white faces surrounding her.

Crashing. Banging. The lights went out.

Her father was on that ship.

A funnel fell, smashing into the icy, black surface of the ocean, sending out a wave that made their lifeboat rock.

Screams. A crack. The bow disappeared completely and the stern stood upright for a few seconds, silent, then gracefully slid below the waves.

The unsinkable ship was gone.

* * *

They sat in stunned silence for hours, after that. Annie hid her face in Clove's shoulder. People held each other, strangers offering comfort in the only way they knew how. And still the cold swept in. The awful, moaning cries of people swept into the freezing waters tailed off as they were rocked into eternal slumber by the gentle waves.

Slowly, eventually, they found four other lifeboats, tied up together. Clove sat numbly as people haphazardly made their way into their lifeboat, and the fourth rowed back towards the site of the sinking, doggedly looking for survivors.

Minutes dragged into hours, people sitting silently. A baby cried from one of the other boats, refusing to be placated. The haunting wail of the dying had long since finished, leaving an smothering stillness that no-one dared break.

Eventually, one woman called out. "Look! Over there! A ship!"

Clove's eyes were drawn to an array of yellow lights on the horizon, and she shook Annie gently. "Annie. Annie, wake up. Annie, there's a ship."

"Don't be daft. It's just the stars," someone else said.

"No, it's a ship," Clove's own voice was hoarse to her ears, rough, grating from the silence that had hung over them all like a shroud.

Hope began to spark amongst the misery in the hours that followed as the lights drew closer and the sky began to morph into a light grey. They were saved.

The shape of a ship began to form, and Clove hugged Annie closer. Perhaps her father had been saved. Perhaps Finnick would greet Annie from the deck of their saviour.

The men aboard picked up their oars in frozen hands and began to row towards the lights, slowly, painfully. A baby began to cry, and Annie blinked.

"Will we see Finnick aboard there?"

"Yes, Annie," Clove replied, hoping that he had been saved somehow. "Yes, we will."

It was hours until they came alongside her properly, seven o'clock in the morning; the name on the side read R.M.S Carpathia, and people crowded the rails, flinging rope ladders and slings down the side.

Clove helped Annie into the safety of a sling and watched as her friend was hoisted towards the throng of faces peering over the side, people with tears streaming down their faces as they looked frantically for loved ones, officers working the slings and blowing whistles, men with clipboards and women draping blankets over everyone.

When almost everyone in her lifeboat had reached the top, Clove pulled a rope-ladder towards her with hands numb from the icy kiss of the night air. Perhaps her father would be at the top; he could have escaped. He must have escaped.

As she reached the deck, a pair of strong hands hauled her over the side and steadied her, her legs trembling from the effort and the sudden shock of being saved. "What is your name, Miss?" A man touched her elbow gently.

"Clove Andrews," she said, her heat beating so fast that she felt faint, looking around for a familiar face, any familiar face. A strange woman wrapped a blanket tightly around her, and another pressed a mug of hot beef broth into her hands, insisting that she take a few sips to warm up and move away from the rail to let the occupants of the other few lifeboats up.

She found a place on a bench against one of the walls, slowly drinking the hot, thick broth. Annie was nowhere to be seen, but she might have been taken inside. Her eyes were fixed on the rail as more straggles of survivors came climbing over, looking for the brown eyes and hair, the careworn handsomeness of her father's face…

"Clove, oh thank God!" A woman's voice said, and then she had been engulfed in the perfume of her governess and the softness of Glimmer's furs.

"Miss Trinket, Glimmer," Clove said as they squeezed her hands and embraced her again.

"My dear, you had us so worried. You must never, ever run off like that again, you hear me?"

"Have you seen my father?"

Miss Trinket looked uncharacteristically tense. "No, I have not. But there are still two lifeboats out there; I heard the officers talking."

"They'll find him," Glimmer seated herself next to Clove. "I am just thanking our Maker that my Marvel was not on the ship with me. He was going to be, you see, but urgent business called him back to New York and he went ahead of me."

"Marvel?" Clove looked at her, confused.

"My fiancé. He'll be waiting for me on the quayside, like he promised. He was loath to let me travel alone, but…" she spread her hands.

All of a sudden, Clove caught a glimpse of someone coming over the rail, a flash of very blonde hair, face tinged with blue from the cold and shivering uncontrollably.

"Excuse me," she said, quickly, standing and pushing her way through the dispersing people, towards the rail. The person looked up, and her eyes met blue.

"You…you survived…" she choked out, her legs wobbling beneath her. He caught her wrists, sinking to the deck under their combined weight. "Mr Guillory…"

"Clove," he whispered hoarsely. The officers, satisfied that he had found someone, moved on down the rail towards where a white-coated man was hurriedly making his rounds.

"Where is my father?"

"Clove…Clove, I'm sorry…"

"No. No, where is he?"

"Clove, I saw him drown, he refused to wear a life-belt," Cato coughed, a hacking cough that wracked his whole chest. "I saw…the water…"

"No, no, you are lying, you have to be," Clove stared at him in horror.

"I'm not, Clove, believe me, I would not lie to you. Not about a thing like this."

"How?" Tears began to drip from her eyes like rain, and a terrible pain was squeezing her chest in its talons.

He took her arms. "Clove…"

She hit him with her fists, the tears falling faster and faster, threatening to drown her. "How? How did you survive and not him? How did you survive, _damn _you! _Damn _you! I wish you'd drowned and he'd been saved…no, no. No!"

He put his arms tightly around her as the anger left her in whoosh and she collapsed against his chest, weeping hopelessly. "No," she whispered. "No. Why? Why, dear God, why?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

It took three days for the Carpathia to steam into New York Harbour. The uncontrollable weeping had dried up after a day, leaving Clove sitting against the wall of the first-class saloon staring blankly into nothingness. Her father was gone. Dead. She'd never see the smile that started slowly, crinkling the corners of his eyes. She'd never hear his light brogue, never feel his arms around her. He was her rock when her mother died and she was brought to him, brought into a world of deferential servants and soft carpets under her feet, but now he was dead and she was lost, floating.

When the doctor had finally made his way over to Mr Guillory on that fateful morning, he was already shivering so hard that he could barely speak, and so had been taken away by two officers on a stretcher to the ship's medical wing. Glimmer had found Clove, then, and the older girl had put her arms about Clove wordlessly, letting the tears soak into her sables.

After that, she had just sat. Her thoughts whirled like a carousel, until she felt like she would go mad with grief and guilt. She should have stayed upon the Titanic; she should have gone down with it like her father.

She should be dead.

Why was she not dead?

Annie's Finnick had not survived. Annie had found her on the second morning and sat down beside her, wrapping her fingers tightly around Clove's and resting her head on her shoulder, silence smothering like a shroud. Glimmer and Miss Trinket hovered, bringing food, blankets, anything they could. But there was nothing they could say.

What could one say when a person's world has collapsed around their feet?

Eventually, the third morning, when she had changed into fresh clothes donated by a kind passenger of the Carpathia, Clove ventured out onto the deck, leaving Annie with Glimmer. It was warmer now that they were out of the ice-fields, and a breeze whipped across her face, tangling in her hair like a lover's fingers. What could stop her from throwing herself overboard, submitting herself to the mercy of the waves? What could stop her claiming the fate that she had deserved?

"Miss Clove?" A tentative voice broke her from her morbid musings, and she looked over her shoulder. Dishevelled blonde hair. A grey dress. Two little girls clinging to her hands; one fair and blue eyed and the other dark like midnight.

"Madge?" Clove tried to summon up surprise, but it would not come. "You survived."

"Yes, I did," Madge paused. There were shadows etched deeply into the skin below her eyelids. "I…I heard about your father. I'm sorry, Miss."

Clove blinked back the angry sting of tears. "Thank you, Madge."

"You remember Primrose?" Madge asked, and Clove let her eyes fall to the little blonde girl with the forget-me-not eyes.

"Yes, I do. Primrose…where's your sister?"

"I don't know," Primrose's lower lip wobbled slightly. "Katniss left me with Madge and told me to be brave. I haven't seen her again."

"She wanted to go down with her fiancé," Madge interjected softly. "Peeta. He worked in the boiler rooms."

"Do you know of anyone else? Your parents?"

"They…they wouldn't leave each other, and, well, Mummy was dying anyway what with her illness and…" Madge closed her eyes for a second. "They're in Heaven with God and that is all that matters. This is Rue, Primrose's friend. She lost her brother, Thresh."

"Hello, Rue," Clove said for the sake of appearances, turning her gaze back towards the ocean. "You three had better go inside. I hear that they are having a service, for the dead."

"Are you coming?"

"In a minute."

Madge gave her mistress a long, sorrowful look, then turned and the bedraggled little trio made their way back towards the warmth of inside.

Clove stared down, over the rail at the sapphire waves. It was a coward's escape, to plunge into the blue depths of the sea, and if there was one thing she knew it was that she was not a coward.

She took a deep breath of daylight, and stepped away from the rail.

* * *

There was a huge crowd waiting for them on the pier at New York. Camera flashes blinded them and there was an ominous rumble of thunder from clouds the colour of bruises. Madge approached Clove slowly, the two little girls in tow. "Can we come with you?" she asked.

"Of course," Glimmer answered for Clove, who was staring numbly into space, ignoring the noise around her as people looked for loved ones on the quayside.

It took a long time to be allowed to disembark. The officers allowed people off in small groups, and when it was their turn the sky was already fading into night.

"Stay together," Glimmer said as they slowly made their way down the gang-way, a motley group of four young women, an older one and two little girls.

The earth felt strange under Clove's feet, too stiff, too still. Ropes had been set up, and the press aggressively pushed forward, desperate to get an interview, a word from someone. Distraught relatives clung to the ropes, desperate to find the familiar face amongst the sea of survivors.

She followed Glimmer's halo of blonde hair with Annie clutching one hand and little Prim the other. This should have been joyous, their arrival in New York. She should have been holding onto her father's arm and smiling at the accolades shouted to him, the designer of the ship of dreams. But there was only utter, numbing grief.

"Marvel!" Glimmer's shriek could easily be heard above the noise, and Clove stopped, watched as Glimmer flung herself into the arms of a young man in a neatly pressed suit and hat without a thought for dignity. He held her close for a long second, pressing his face into her hair and Clove watched silently. It was not like that would happen to her.

"Who are these?" He asked as he let go of Glimmer and took her hand, his American accent grating on Clove's ears.

"My friends," Glimmer replied simply. "Clove, Annie, Miss Trinket, Madge, Prim and Rue."

They exchanged a slow look.

"I am very sorry for your losses, ladies," he said sincerely. "There are plenty of spare rooms at the hotel I am staying at; if you would care to follow me."

Clove took another breath, and looked toward Annie, who was staring into space.

"Yes, thank you," she said.

* * *

He found her five days after they arrived.

She was sitting on a bench in a park which was near the hotel, clutching a hat bought by Glimmer for her in her hands, twisting the ribbons round and around her fingers. Her father had brought her here when she was a child; she remembered this. The canopy of emerald leaves, the blossom falling in showers of white. It was so peaceful; the perfect place to hide, to get away from the arrangements, the fuss.

A voice broke her reverie. "May I join you?"

She looked up and her mouth fell open. "Mr Guillory?"

"Miss Andrews," he replied, cordially. There was a thick coat wrapped around his shoulders, and deep circles under his eyes as though he had not slept in a long time. She felt that she should be embarrassed in his presence, but she could not bring herself to care. "How are you holding up?"

There was such gentleness in his voice that tears pricked her eyes again. No. No. She must _not _start crying or she'd never stop.

"I am fine, yourself?" Her voice was stiff, though she wished it could be otherwise.

He sighed. "I have recovered from the hypothermia, but…well, my step-mother is completely grief-stricken and the children are confused. It is not easy to be around them at the moment. Where are you staying?"

"A hotel around the corner. Miss Glimmer's fiancé arranged it for us."

"What will you do, in the future?"

"I have no idea, Mr Guillory. I may go back to Ireland, I may stay here."

"Will you marry me?"

Her head whipped around and she stared at him as though he had just confessed he was the Messiah come again.

"What?"

"Will you marry me, Clove? I will look after you and care for you and…"

A tear dribbled down her cheek. "You can't."

"Why?"

"I…" she took a deep breath. "I'm a bastard, Cato, I was born out of wedlock."

He breathed in slowly, and looked at her from below those blonde lashes that were far too long for a man.

"I do not care. It doesn't stop me from loving you."

Her heart beat in her chest so fast that she felt faint. "I'm sorry. I'm not ready, I can't…it's too soon."

And with that she got up and walked away.


	11. Epilogue

**A/N **And we have reached the end! Thank you for sticking by this, guys, and a special thanks to all the Guest Reviewers - I really wish I could reply to you in person.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Two years passed. There were good days, where she felt almost normal again, and bad days where she sat and stared out of a window for hours upon hours. She had travelled back to Ireland, after a time, gone to her step-mother's house. Helen had taken one look at her, started to cry and enveloped her in an embrace, all the prejudice and dislike evaporated into nothingness by the tragedy.

"You and Elba are the only things I have left of him," Helen sobbed.

Clove had begun to cry too, and the two women had sunk to the floor and wept for what seemed like hours.

Madge had stayed in America with a boy she had met. Glimmer and Marvel had married and had taken in Prim and Rue. Miss Trinket had sworn never to set foot on a ship again and found another position as a governess in New York. Annie, dear, sweet Annie had never recovered from her grief and Clove would never forget that awful day when a letter arrived from Glimmer, letting her know that Annie had gone to join her husband with God.

Slowly, a life grew out of the patchwork pieces left behind by the disaster. Clove and her step-mother spent more time together, helping the poor, running the house.

Then, the second blow struck.

4th of August, 1914.

Britain declared war on Germany.

Tensions had been simmering in Europe throughout that summer like a giant cooking pot, and then the Archduke Ferdinand had been assassinated. The whole of the world held its breath as armies were mustered and Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. Then Germany. Then Britain.

And now that the world was at war, it seemed as though the Titanic had been forgotten. And so Clove put it out of her head and insisted on training as nurse at the school in Belfast. She would not sit idly by whilst people died; she had done enough of that on that fateful morning of the 15th of April 1912.

It was not easy. It took weeks to learn everything, to bite down on her tongue and accept orders from Matron, a stern, grey-haired woman with sharp eyes that never seemed to miss anything. There were endless days of making beds until they were perfect, washing bandages, cleaning bed-pans. But then the wounded started to arrive, and they were even busier in their hospital in the city-centre, re-bandaging wounds, cleaning blood from skin, working, working, working from dawn until dusk.

It was one of these days, two years into the war, where she was walking home from her shift at the hospital, exhausted and worn-out with the weight of the injured men's moans on her back. All of a sudden, she walked into something hard and solid and stumbled back with a cry of surprise.

Hands caught her before she fell, and then she was looking into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen.

Her mouth fell open.

"You should watch where you are going next time, Miss…Clove?"

"Cato," she said, faintly. "It's you."

His khaki uniform was neatly pressed and there was a hat on his hair but the shape of bandages bulged on his shoulder.

"You're…you're a nurse, now…"

"Yes, I am. And you're a soldier – what happened?"

"Shot, badly." he said. "But it's almost healed. I'm going back out there in a week."

"You…you must call on us. 20 Winsor Avenue." She blushed under his searching gaze. "I had better be going. Helen's expecting me."

* * *

The next night he came for supper, still in his uniform. Helen smiled as she greeted him. "My stepdaughter will be here soon, Mr Guillory. She only returned from her shift at the hospital about a half-hour ago. Can I offer you something to drink?"

"No, thank you," Cato said, looking around at the beautiful paintings on the walls.

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds, and then the door swung open. He turned, and Clove was there, beautiful in an old dark blue gown. She smiled, almost shyly, and came towards him.

"Good evening, Mr Guillory. I am so pleased you were able to come."

"Miss Andrews." He kissed her hand.

After dinner, Helen excused herself, suggesting that Clove might like to show their guest the library. He offered his good arm, and she took it, escorting him towards the great door and stepping into the world of the books that had been her solace when she had first arrived here.

He looked around in silence for a few minutes, and she seated herself on the divan by the fireplace. Then he turned to her, and there was an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes.

"Clove," he said softly. "I know you turned me down last time I asked this, but, well…I have had too many brushes with death over the past years and if anything, they have taught me to seize things in life with both hands and to not let them go. I made a mistake in letting you walk away from me last time, and…"

"What are you saying?"

He took a breath and knelt down beside her. "Clove Johanna Andrews, will you marry me?"

She stared at him for a second, then a smile began to tug at her features like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, Cato Guillory, I will."

* * *

**End**


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